


thirty-five years gone

by knoxoursavior



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: Thirty-five years gone and they’re back where they started. Bruce and Alfred, Alfred and Bruce, a man and his butler, a man and his ward.Or: Alfred will always stay by Bruce's side.





	thirty-five years gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [completist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/completist/gifts).



> !!!! this was rly fun to write!!!!!! i love alfred very much and he loves bruce very much and it all works out!!!

Thirty-five years gone and they’re back where they started. Bruce and Alfred, Alfred and Bruce, a man and his butler, a man and his ward.

 

Bruce doesn’t get up from his chair in the Cave for five whole days after Jason’s funeral. When he finally does, it’s to put on his cowl and beat up the Joker close to death. Alfred can’t say that he’s sad to see the Joker bloodied and bruised, but one look at Bruce and his heart sinks.

There is a hardness in Bruce’s eyes, a coldness that wasn’t there before. Even the fearsome Gotham Bat breaks and Jason’s death was the last straw.

Alfred finds Bruce kneeling on the floor of the Cave, clutching Jason’s suit, crying. Alfred hasn’t seen Bruce cry since his parents’ funeral. That isn’t to say that Bruce hasn’t cried since, of course not. Alfred has seen Bruce’s eyes red-rimmed after Dick first called him Dad and after Dick finally packed his bags and left.

Now, though, Bruce is crying—heaving sobs, his whole body trembling with it. Alfred’s heart breaks once more for this boy he loves so much, this boy he would lay down his own life for, who he’s dedicated the rest of his life to. He wants to wipe away Bruce’s tears and tell him everything’s going to be all right, but he knows Bruce won’t appreciate it.

Instead, Alfred sits next to Bruce, wraps an arm around his shoulder and waits.

“He killed Jason,” Bruce says. Alfred can barely make it out. Bruce’s voice is hoarse, his words strangled, like it’s taking everything he has to get them out.

“He did,” Alfred says, because there is nothing else he can say that is nothing more than a platitude or a result of the dark, ugly feeling that clings to his chest.

Bruce grasps Alfred’s shirt, shaking him. Alfred isn’t quite sure that Bruce heard him, or that Bruce cares about anything other than _Jason_.

“Alfred,” he says, “he killed _my son_.”

Bruce sounds so dejected, so broken, and Alfred understands. He may as well have lost a grandson, a companion. Jason was so bright—so different from Dick but still so brilliant in his own way. Jason was rough around the edges but that was what made him so wonderful. Alfred will never forget their afternoons after Jason came home from school, spent baking while Jason tried to do his homework on the kitchen table. Alfred will never let himself forget Jason’s smile, or the way Jason would hide under the computers in the Cave until he grew tall enough that he couldn’t anymore, or how Jason would always fall asleep in the library, his hand still stuck in between the pages of a book.

Alfred is sure that Bruce won’t forget either, won’t forgive himself, won’t stop thinking about what could have happened if only he’d been faster, if he hadn’t let Jason out of his sight, if he’d been a better father.

“I know,” Alfred says, pulling Bruce closer. “I know, son.”

 

Anyone Bruce might have considered family is either dead and buried or avoiding him, which leaves no one but Alfred by his side. Again. Only now it’s so much worse, Alfred supposes.

It’s as if Bruce is stuck in that hole he fell into all those years ago, alone in the darkness, consumed by it. No matter how many people have dipped their hand into that darkness and tried to pull him out, no one has ever succeeded because Bruce has pushed them all away. But Alfred has no intention of leaving. Bruce can hide himself away, brood and sulk and ruin himself but Alfred is here to stay. He has been with Bruce through thick and thin. Alfred nurses his wounds night after night, painstakingly checks Bruce’s equipment everyday just for that additional comfort of knowing the Gotham Bat will be that much harder to beat when he goes out at night. He has been here for Bruce even when everyone else has left, even now that Bruce is slowly losing himself piece by piece.

So many dead, so many lives weighing on Bruce’s shoulders, so many things gone wrong that Bruce has claimed for himself, and all of it is taking its toll on Bruce. Alfred has lost just as much, but he isn’t affected the way Bruce is. He doesn’t blame himself, doesn’t think _what if_ or _what could have been_ . He spent years on the battlefield, fighting, killing for the so-called greater good. He’s figured out long ago that there’s no right answer to the question of _what could he have done better?_ The past is the past, and Alfred’s better served thinking of what he should do in the future.

But Bruce—

Bruce immerses himself in the past, never lets himself forget, latches onto his guilt and keeps it close to his chest where it can wound him. Bruce feels so strongly and so deeply and there isn’t anything Alfred can do except pick up the pieces, help Bruce stand back up again and get back on track.

And Alfred tries. He tries his very best even when some days he thinks everything he says only goes into Bruce’s ear and comes out of the other. He _tries_. He reminds Bruce of who he is and what he stands for. He reminds Bruce of the line that he himself drew when he first started out, all of twenty-years-old, angry and so very determined to make Gotham a better place like his parents wanted.

For the little boy who insisted he go with his parents to watch a movie in the cinema even though he always fell asleep in the middle of it, the boy who held Alfred’s hand every time he was picked up from school, for the man who Bruce could have been, if he hadn’t lost so much at such a young age—Alfred tries.

 

In the end, all it takes is another death to bring Bruce out of his rut.

Alfred doesn’t know Clark Kent, but he does know Superman. The same could be said of Bruce, but that doesn’t stop him from paying for Clark’s funeral or fancying himself as Martha Kent’s new anonymous benefactor. Lois Lane would receive the same treatment as Martha, but she’s much more adept at finding the bugs that Bruce sneaks onto her person.

Alfred is—well, he’s glad. He’s relieved. The world may have lost a hero but he’s gotten Bruce back. Granted, Bruce is just as obsessive, just as liable to overwork himself and burn out, but he’s _better_. He’s himself again. There’s still guilt, still a weight on Bruce’s shoulders, but he’s found a purpose again, a new focal point to revolve his life around and it’s to save this world he lives in. That he has a new friend in Diana is a bonus for Alfred, even though Alfred has to fight tooth-and-nail just to get Bruce to contact her.

“Our only connections are Doomsday and Kal,” Diana says. She’s sitting on the living room couch, having a cup of tea with Alfred while Bruce hides in the Cave. “Clearly, we did not have a very pleasant beginning. I understand why he’s hesitant to see me, even if I don’t approve of it.”

“You’re very kind to say that, Ms. Prince, but you don’t have to make excuses Master Wayne,” Alfred says.

Diana smiles, so very patient, with a look in her eyes that is steady and understanding. Alfred is once again reminded that she is centuries-old, that she has seen enough of this world’s men to know how hard-headed and ridiculous they can be.

“I like to think that I’m making excuses for a friend, Alfred,” she says, and Alfred can’t help the twist of his mouth into a smile that he hides behind his teacup.

“I like to think so too, Ms. Prince.”

 

Perhaps it isn’t quite a surprise that Bruce takes the first chance he gets to bring Clark Kent back to life. He has lost too many people, has carried the burden of Superman’s death for a year, and finally, he’s given a solution, given _hope_.

Alfred is there to see the fallout, to see Clark Kent disoriented, angry, lashing out, but he is also there to see Clark take one look at Lois Lane and start to come back to himself, eyes clearing. Clark takes off with Lois in his arms, but when Bruce tells him matter-of-fact that Clark will be back to help them, Alfred doesn’t doubt it.

When Clark Kent walks into the lake house, dressed in a new Superman suit, corners of his mouth turned upwards into a small smile, Alfred isn’t that surprised.

“I’m assuming you’re Alfred,” Clark says, and there’s a lightness to him that Alfred finds remarkable, considering that only a few hours ago, he wasn’t even alive. Though, Alfred supposes that if he were given a second chance to be with the people he loves, to take care of them, he’d be just as happy.

“Master Kent,” Alfred greets.

Clark breathes out some semblance of a laugh, and Alfred pauses.

He’s always thought of Superman as a good man, not so different from Bruce in that he decided to use his powers, his abilities, to _help_ even though he didn’t need to. The world has already proven that it barely deserves Clark’s help, very much like how Gotham has proven time and time again that she will do nothing but take and take from Bruce until he has nothing left.

Still, they stay. They keep at it. That, in itself, endears Clark to Alfred. That Bruce would do anything for him, has proven that he would go above and beyond for him, only adds to the list of reasons why Clark might as well just be part of the family.

“He said you’d come,” Alfred continues. “Now, let’s hope you’re not too late.”

Clark blinks, as if he’s surprised. Alfred thinks of his last meeting with Bruce, thinks of a spear pressed to his cheek—well. Alfred never said that Bruce was the best at making friends.

Clark recovers soon enough, jaw working before he finally steps forward, closer to Alfred.

“Tell me what I need to do,” he says. _Whatever it is, I’ll do it_ , he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to.

For a split second, Alfred imagines Clark, swooping in, taking a hit meant for Bruce, imagines Bruce’s relief when he sees that it’s _Clark_ who he has mourned, who he has gotten to know only through what he left behind. Alfred imagines another weight lifted off Bruce’s shoulders and thinks _yes._ Thinks _finally_.

There’s nothing left for Alfred to do but to catch Clark up and hope for the best, and so he does.

 

Bruce comes home safe and sound, but more remarkable perhaps is that he comes back a new man. It’s like he’s finally settled into his place in the world, and it warms Alfred’s heart.

Bruce thrives when he’s surrounded by people he trusts, people who have his back and love him and want him to be happy. No matter how much Alfred loves Bruce, he’s just one man. Bruce needs more than just him, needs friends, needs his family to keep him grounded.

Oh, he has friends in Gotham—Commissioner Gordon and Barbara, Leslie Thompkins, no doubt—but this is different. The rest of the team, they’re fundamentally similar to Bruce but they don’t have the baggage attached to them that people from Gotham do. They’re their own people with their own cities to protect, and Alfred thinks it’s good for Bruce to be around them, to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than just Gotham.

Thirty-six years gone and Bruce is finding his way again. Things are slotting into place one by one, but there’s still one part missing.

Master Richard may not be Robin anymore, but he is still Bruce’s son. He can be his own person and still come home to inflict Alfred with his hugs once in a while. Besides, Alfred thinks enough years have passed that Dick and Bruce have both calmed down, both had enough time to consider everything that’s happened and move on.

So Alfred picks up the phone and calls. It’s more than a little bit comforting that Dick answers right away.

“Hey, Alfie, what’s up?” he greets, cheerful and warm and so very much like the boy Alfred used to wrangle from the chandeliers.

He’s older now, much more mature, more somber, but in the end, it doesn’t feel like he’s changed much at all. Dick is family; he may as well be Alfred’s grandson. Alfred hopes he’ll come home eventually, but for now, Alfred will be happy enough if he visits for dinner and talks to his father.

Bruce is doing much better than he’s been in the past ten years, and Alfred knows that Dick only just graduated from the police academy in Bludhaven. They’re both recovering, both in a good place, and Alfred thinks there’s no better time for them to talk than now.

“Come to dinner this weekend, Master Richard,” Alfred says, straight to the point. He can hear Dick’s surprised intake of breath, but before Dick could reply, Alfred continues, “Master Bruce and the rest of his team have been working on restoring the manor. Perhaps you would like to see that, Master Richard?”

“So it’s true then?” Dick says, and Alfred can easily imagine him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. “Bruce worked with—with Superman?”

“Well, you’ll have to come back to find out, won’t you?” Alfred says, and he knows that Dick doesn’t have to see him to know he’s raising an eyebrow.

“ _Alfie_.”

Alfred smiles.

“You can tell us all about the police academy while you’re here.”

There’s a few beats of silence where Alfred can only wait, but soon enough, Dick sighs.

“This weekend, you said?”

Alfred promises to email Dick all the details, and when he finally puts down the phone, he thinks, _finally_. This isn’t the same place they were in years ago, with Dick, Jason, and Babs all working with them to make Gotham a better place, but it’s enough.

They can be happy again. Alfred can see _Bruce_ happy again, and that’s all that really matters to him in the end.


End file.
